Free The Glass Coffin by Gail Bowen Page B

beings must accept the fact that pleasure and pain are inextricably linked and that a life without pain would be a life with a limited capacity for joy. Embrace the pain in your life, Jill. It will lead you to unimaginable joy.’ ”
    When Felix fell silent, there was a smattering of desultory applause, but he didn’t pick up on the hint that his moment in the spotlight was over and it was time to cede the floor. He seemed mesmerized by his Palm Pilot, staring at it, as if for comfort or advice. The silence became awkward, and Jill went over, whispered something in his ear, and guided him gently down into his seat.
    The next speaker was Evan, and when he stood up, the stagy tan of his MAC concealer and his movie-star larger-than-life quality caused even the servers to stop and stare. As he raised his glass, I sensed a consummate actor was about to take us all on a journey, and I wasn’t wrong.
    “Thank you, Felix, for bringing Caroline MacLeish to the wedding. Not many women would have sent the gift of Nietzsche to a new bride but, as you say, my mother is exceptional. Apparently, she is also prescient. Caroline’s is the only gift Jill and I can put to immediate use.” Guests leaned forward in their seats, anticipating some drama. Evan didn’t disappoint. “A few minutes ago, we learned that our dear friend, Gabe Leventhal, who came here from New York to be part of our wedding, died of a heart attack early this morning. We’re shaken, in pain, but mindful of Nietzsche’s lesson, I ask that you join me in drinking a toast that encompasses pain at the death of a friend and joy at the birth of a marriage.”
    The silence in the room was rooted more in awkwardness than grief. Most of the guests had never met Gabe Leventhal, but as I took in the reactions of those who had, there were a few surprises. Taylor, who was sitting beside me, was stunned into silence. “Are you okay?” I asked.
    “I just don’t understand,” she said. “How could he be at our house having fun last night, then be dead today?”
    My only answer was to pull her close. Angus was watching Bryn intently, ready to catch the pieces when she shattered, but after a beat, she opened her evening bag, pulled out a mirror, and checked her lip gloss. Tracy had begun to cry, copiously and theatrically. Claudia handed her a glass of champagne, told her to smarten up, then turned her attention to saving the party. “Time for the cake,” she said. “And time to applaud the man who created the cake.”
    The name of the man who created the cake was Kevin Hynd, and he had a history. He was by training a corporate lawyer and, like Jill, he was a passionate Deadhead. When Jerry Garcia died, Kevin had been rocked by the revelation that life was transitory. He walked away from his six-figure income and started doing pro bono work that he underwrote with the earnings from his new business: a bakery devoted to creating edible monuments to hip excess. The wedding cake was his gift to Jill, and as the guests gathered around, it was clear that Kevin had surpassed himself. He’d created a four-tiered marvel covered in Swiss meringue butter cream, encircled by a soaring fondant ribbon bearing the legend “Let there be songs to fill the air …” and topped with marzipan renderings of the Rainbow Dancers, those high-stepping, multi-coloured, top-hatted skeletons who were the emblem of one of the Grateful Dead’s greatest tours. The creation was slick enough for a magazine cover, but funky as the cake was, it was the knife Jill and Evan were using that drew my eye.
    It was an ulu, the crescent-shaped knife Inuit women use to cut up seal meat and dress skins. The women of Baker Lake had given it to Jill after she spent a summer there doing a story about their lives and their art. At her farewell party, the women told her the knife was a vital survival tool for a woman; then they had covered their mouths to hide their laughter at the idea that Jill would need an ulu